


The House is Quiet

by FlyAndDontLookBack



Series: Phangst [1]
Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Gen, M/M, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 08:35:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6510766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyAndDontLookBack/pseuds/FlyAndDontLookBack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Phil shows the progression of his videos as he tries to cope with Dan Howell's death - and ultimately fails.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The House is Quiet

**Author's Note:**

> Because I watched one of their (many) tumblr tag videos and in one of them, they mentioned how Phil was always the one to die in phanfictions. I wanted to take the challenge :D

The house is quiet.

It’s a change to the neighbors around the flat. They don’t know if they should love it or hate it. They decide to wait until a few more weeks pass by.

The house is quiet.

There isn’t any sound resonating from it. There used to be music, banter, laughter. People wonder where it’s at anymore. 

The house is quiet.

Until a man with dyed black hair and dull green, almost blue eyes enters his room and closes the door slowly, as if to make no sound. There’s some pacing, a bit of mumbling, and a final sigh before he finally decides on what he wants to do. 

The man sets up his video camera, which he hadn’t touched for a while now, and makes sure that it doesn’t fall like that one time. He winces at the memory; it’s not so much the camera falling but the surroundings he was in at the time that make him want to cry.

The man finally hits the play button, the red light blinking slowly, and he sighs one more time before holding his hand up in the air.

_“Hey guys.”_ He says weakly and rubs his dreary, tired eyes while silently cursing at himself for barely being able to speak. Was it a whisper? When was the last time he was able to speak louder?

He hesitates as the question answers itself. He rubs his eyes even harder and a small sob rises in his throat. He then lowers his hands, letting his dull green, almost blue eyes glare at the recording camera, and tries one more time.

_“Hey guys.”_ It’s no use. He can’t speak louder. It’s still a whisper, and it’s still cracking. He decides to keep going, regardless of his voice. It’s obvious he can’t change this anymore, just like he can’t change the past no matter how much he wishes.

_“I’m sorry you can’t hear me, my voice doesn’t seem to go louder than it already is. Let me just move the camera closer.”_ He stands up and spends a moment to move the camera closer to his bed. The green and blue color of his bed sheets contrasts everything that’s going on in his life; he really should get rid of that bed cover and get something less bright. He then winces at the thought; he was pretty much thinking of black and white, and it’s still too early.

When the camera is all set, he sits down in his original spot. The proximity of the red blinking light blinds him slightly, and it doesn’t occur to him until he’s editing the video that the camera has focused on his dark bags below his dull green, almost blue eyes.

_“I wonder if you can hear me now. I’m sorry.”_ The man places his hands on his face to cover up any emotions the camera might catch and another sob rises up. He does his best to choke it back down. It doesn’t work.

_“I’m sorry.”_ He says once more. Actually, he just keeps repeating those two words over and over again. Whether it’s actually voiced out or inside his mind, he doesn’t know, but he finally gets his composure (turns out, he’s been voicing them out the entire time. While’s he’s editing, he counts all the _I’m sorry_ ’s he says. There’s 24.)

_“I won’t be posting as many videos anymore. I’m… I’m still coping. Thank you for the support, and please understand.”_ He closes his eyes.

_“I’m sorry this is so short,”_ (His 23rd sorry), _“but I just wanted to post this so you all knew what was going on. I’m so sorry.”_ (His 24th. Even while editing, he still doesn't know if that last sorry was directed to his subscribers or for someone else. He doesn’t know which one is worse; a second later, he cries. He definitely knows which is worse.)

* * *

The house is quiet.

The neighbors start to realize something is wrong. It’s been two months.

The house is quiet.

There should be something by now. A blare of television, a blare of Muse music, a blare of laughter. At least give them a blare of cries. But there’s nothing.

The house it quiet.

Until a man with ginger roots and dull, blue eyes quietly walks to the front door and opens it to find a mailman holding a heavy box. The man thanks him, and apologizes to the mailman that he had to bring in similar packages to the flat for the past few weeks. The mailman shakes his head, gives him a small smile, pats him on the back and tells him that it’s going be ok.

The man with the ginger roots and dull, blue eyes can’t even give a small smile back and merely closes the door as he says goodbye. He looks at the box he’s just received; it’s from Felix this time. He silently apologizes as he puts the box on top of the other fifteen he’s gotten in the last two months.

(Had he opened it, he would have seen the various letters mourning the loss and praying for his own well-being. He would have seen the various gifts, the money envelopes, and the various photos of when everything was ok. Had he known what was inside all those boxes, he would have been glad to have never opened them. He would never want to see those picture frames. Nothing is ok anymore.)

He walks back to his room, making sure to look straight and nowhere else, and silently closes the door. It’s become a habit now. He wouldn’t want to wake up anyone; the walls in this flat were always so thin.

He sets up his camera again, which hadn’t been touched since his last update video, and makes sure to set it up close to his bed. His hair is unruly, his eyes bags are still prominent, and no one would be able to see his once beautiful green eyes if they met him in person.

He doesn’t go out much anymore. Not when he knows everything happened in front of the house. Not when he knows he won’t be able to go out without breaking down again.

When he presses the play button on his video camera, the red blinking light shines and makes the man with ginger roots cover his dull, blue eyes from the sudden glare. He blinks a few times to try and get used to it, but he soon realizes he’ll never be able to.

(It reminds him of something he refuses to remember.)

_“Hey guys.”_ He whispers with a hand barely raised in the air. He tries to clear his voice and at least try to be considerate and let his viewers hear him. When he tries, however, he ends up coughing and a few tears run down his cheeks from the rasping pain.

_“I’m sorry, I haven’t really been talking much lately… It’s hard. It’s really, really hard. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”_ Before he can break down, the man with ginger roots covers his face and his dull, blue eyes from the blinking red light. He presses the palms of his hands to his eyes, slowly rubbing them to press back any more tears he may have. 

(How many more tears can he have? He’s been crying to sleep these past two months. Why does he still have more?)

When he finally composes himself (when he edits the video, he sees that it’s taken a full 10 minutes), he looks back at the camera and his dull, blue eyes can’t seem to shine as bright anymore. He blinks as he looks down pitifully. His hands are so cold.

_“I’m sorry, I can’t seem to say much, can I? Thank you so much for the support, and I’m sorry for anyone who’s been wanting to see any content from my channel. I don’t think I’ll be able to go back. Not when -”_ His eyes suddenly grow wide as his sentence gets cut off. Quickly, before he can vomit any food that’s left in him, he turns off the camera.

(Later on that day, when he uploads the short update to his channel, he checks the previous one he’s made. There’s a over 4 million views and the number seems to keep growing, but he refuses to check the comments made on that video.)

* * *

The house is quiet.

Some of the neighbors go to check if the man with ginger hair is doing ok. Every time he opens the door to his flat, visiting neighbors always make sure to come back with something to eat. No person should be that thin.

The house is quiet.

The lacking sound coming from the flat is now a norm. To some people, they’ve gotten used to it. To others, it’s just painful.

The house is quiet.

Until a man with full ginger hair and blue-slowly-turning-grey eyes walks to the door to see who it is this time to come to his house. When he opens the door, he sees a familiar face and immediately closes it again. There’s banging, some shouting, some pleading, but the man with full ginger hair and blue-slowly-turning-grey eyes refuses to open the door.

He slides his back and curls into a ball, even when the banging reminds him of his running footsteps, even when the screaming reminds him of his own. 

Open the door, the familiar face screams from the other side of the door. We want to help. Please, open the door.

But even then, the man can’t make himself open the door. He can’t make himself face something he’s been avoiding for the last six months. (His eyes grow wide for a second. Had it only been half a year? Why did it feel like a lifetime?)

Finally, the banging stops and the man takes his time uncurling himself. But even when he stands up, his back is still bent and it hurts to straighten it up. (Soon enough, he’ll back in his protective shell. He’ll be grateful for it.)

He quietly checks from the peephole if the familiar face has gone, and lets out a hefty sigh when he sees no one (nothing) from the hallway. The singular light dangling from the ceiling, right in front of the door, swinging silently, is soon turned off and the man with blue-slowly-turning-grey eyes walks quietly back to the room.

(Four months, he realizes, since he’s uploaded a video. He was sure it was longer.)

He quietly shuts the door, making sure it can’t be heard by the ghost living inside the house, and takes out his video camera. He blows the dust that had piled up from four months of not touching it and he carelessly watches all the specs fall to the ground. It stays there, unmoving, and the man is suddenly running to the bathroom to vomit only bile. (When was the last time he ate? Did he even have any food left?)

About half an hour passes by (he swears it was shorter) but he finally sees the camera and presses the play button with the red blinking light still blinding him. Outside, there’s an ambulance alarm whizzing through, and he covers his ears as hard as he can, almost to the point of ripping his full ginger hair out, to block out that noise.

Minutes pass before he can finally let go of his ears and focus on the camera (he surprises himself when he later finds that it had taken him a little over an hour to even start talking.)

_“Hey guys.”_ He doesn’t even bother to raise his hand in a hello motion anymore. There would never be a hello back. 

He needs to get back on his feet. That’s why he’s making this video; to tell his supporters that he would be ok. (Would he really be, though?)

_“I’m sorry I haven’t been the best at uploading lately, but I’m doing my best. I’m doing my best, so please understand.”_ He stops for a second to take a deep breath, his eyes shutting so that the camera can’t see his blue-slowly-turning-grey eyes.

_“I decided to do a live show again. Not now, not tomorrow. I want to do a live show when I know that I’ve gotten past it. It might take a while, but I’m not giving up on you guys, not when you’ve been showing me so much support.”_ (He can’t help but lie; he hasn’t been on any of social medias for these six months. He doesn’t know what anyone’s been saying these months. He still refuses to be reminded.)

_“I promise to tell you guys on Twitter when I start my live show, so thank you, and I’m so sorry.”_ (While he’s editing, he can’t even take out the part of him crying slightly because he had just announced the live show. He doesn’t want to record it again. The ambulance is back and it’s taking all of his willpower not to scream.)

* * *

The house is quiet.

Neighbors stop checking on him. They have their own lives to take of. They can’t keep holding onto the hope that he’ll be ok, too. He’s a lost cause, they finally deduce. They can’t help it; they’ve had enough.

The house is quiet.

The lack of sound almost makes it seem as if the house is deserted, even though everyone around the flat knows that he’s still in there, never coming out. The lack of sound is not comforting in the least, but everyone’s gotten so used to it that even those who were pained by it have finally accepted it.

The house is quiet.

Until a man with choppily cut, poorly dyed black hair and obscure, grey eyes opens his computer after publicly announcing on Twitter that he’s now starting his live show. (It’s been so long since he’s even opened any of his social media accounts. The moment he’s on Twitter, he’s bombarded with millions of messages. He refuses to open any of them.)

He lets out a sigh to calm his nerves before finally opening his YouNow account and signing in. Even though he still hasn’t turned on his camera, there are more than 6 million people watching. He wishes he could smile, he really does, but his face hasn’t been functioning at all for these past twelve months. 

(He doesn’t know that today is that day. He doesn’t know at all. Had he opened all those messages on Twitter, gone through each and every one of them, he would have known. He would have chosen another date. Had he gone through the rest of his social media accounts, he would have seen all those tributes. But he makes the mistake of not checking the calendar, the date and time on his phone, all the red flags, and still proceeds.)

He finally turns on the camera and the chat beside the video screen explodes with comments from his viewers, his supporters. He takes a moment to read what they’re saying because he’s so overcome with emotion. (It’s been too long.)

So glad to see you’re better!

You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this moment!

This is such an honor. I’m so glad you’re back!

Good to see you back from the dead!

The man hesitates and swallows a big lump in his throat. I’ve gotten better, he says to himself silently, I’ve gotten better.

_“Hey, guys. I’m finally back.”_ He manages to say and the comments give him another round of applause. He can do this. He can.

_“And yeah, for anybody wondering, I’ve been doing better. I really have. Thank you so much for the support. I really appreciate it.”_

And he’s about to talk, just like he had been doing in his live shows before everything crashed down. He’s about to talk about his day, what he had been doing for past couple of months, and he’s about to talk about what it’s like living alone and how the house is now always quiet.

But when he reads that one comment at the edge of the screen, his grey eyes turn black and he leaves his room, running. The camera is still on. 

(The comment reads: I admire that you were able to do a live show even though today’s his death anniversary. I love you!)

(His clumsiness allows him to push the computer so that it faces the window at the corner of his room. The viewers, all 8 million of them, see that his blue and green bed covers are gone, and the bed is now barren. Everything else is gone as well. All mementos, all shelves, and even the pink blowfish given to him on his birthday.)

He’s running, running so fast to the top of the building, to the roof of the apartment, and for the first time, he feels the wind blowing through his hair and the clouds covering the view of the sun. (Or had it always been like this? Had England always been so devoid of light? Or did it just become like this after his life went into complete shambles?)

The man with the choppily cut, poorly dyed black hair and his now lifeless black eyes peer down and finally sees the same spot where he had crouched down, holding dearly onto a body that had already stopped moving, repeating the same words _you’ll be ok, you’ll be ok._

He finally sees the same spot where he refused to let go of the body even though the ambulance had arrived and was taking the only thing he loved away from him, the alarm still blearing, still glaring red, just like the blood on his hands.

He finally sees the same spot where both had been entering the apartment when he had decided to be purposely clumsy and throw the keys to their flat and making the other fetch the stilled keys that was on the road.

He finally sees the same spot where a car had suddenly come out of nowhere, unable to see him crouching down to get the keys, and getting hit in slow motion.

He finally sees the same spot where Dan Howell had died, right in Phil Lester’s arms, because of his stupid, godforsaken mistake.

The house is quiet.

(The chat goes crazy as the 8 million viewers see such a familiar face whizz past the window, and the computer slowly fades to black as the final thing they hear is a deafening crack.)

* * *

The house is quiet.

Neighbors read the newspaper with the headline: Famous Youtuber, Phillip Michael Lester, Commits Suicide. The article mentions how a man with choppily cut, poorly dyed black hair and what used to be beautiful green eyes committed suicide by jumping off the roof of the apartment the same day this past year when his best friend and boyfriend, Daniel James Howell, was killed in a hit-and-run.

The house is quiet.

It is now truly deserted, and no one ever hopes to hear from the house ever again. Not even a howl of wind passing by the open window of the flat, nor the blare of cries coming from the ghost living inside it.

The house is quiet.

There is no man anymore.


End file.
